


Reichenbach

by nishizono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's life, after Sherlock's death, takes a dramatic turn for the worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reichenbach

Lestrade's life, after Sherlock's death, takes a dramatic turn for the worse.

He doesn't notice at first because he's too wrapped up in the details-- the search for bodies, the mountains of paperwork. Once the initial frenzy has worn off, he sends condolences to Sherlock's next of kin: whiskey for John and flowers for Mrs. Hudson. He leaves a message at Mycroft's office, but Mycroft never calls him back, so he sends a note instead.

When he's finally out of leads to follow and people to comfort, he goes to the rec center, sits in the rubble, and drinks half a bottle of scotch.

It doesn't help.

  


~*~*~

  
He knows something's wrong when Sally starts bringing him tea. She's one of the least sympathetic people he knows, and the fact that she's going out of her way to be nice speaks volumes.

The others are acting differently, too; crime scenes go quiet when he arrives, and people keep their heads down when he's talking. Lestrade hates the way they scatter when he barks an order, and he hates the sense of wry satisfaction it gives him.

He doesn't blame anyone for being wary. He knows what grief can do. He feels brittle at the edges, like he's been left in the sun for too long, dried out by the heat of Sherlock's brilliance.

  


~*~*~

  
They file his suspension as an unpaid vacation.

Lestrade goes home angry, paces for half an hour, and then smashes all the crockery. When he's finished throwing plates at the wall, he sits down and has a beer. He wonders if he should ring Anderson to apologize, but then he decides Anderson bloody well deserved a broken nose for calling Sherlock a freak.

He calls his daughter instead. Daisy is seventeen and beautiful, and the only thing Lestrade and his ex-wife did right. She doesn't answer her phone, but he listens to her outgoing message and hangs up before the beep.

Lestrade's not a coward, but he's also not invincible.

And neither, in the end, was Sherlock.

  


~*~*~

  
He ignores the letter when it comes in the mail. It's addressed to “D.I. Lestrade” in a neat, cramped hand, and there's no return address. Lestrade doesn't even care enough to wonder who it's from. He just tosses it on the ever-growing stack of bills, then flops down to watch the rest of the footie match.

It's dinnertime before he remembers to open it.

Lestrade puts his beer down on the sideboard and scratches his unshaven jaw. His skin hasn't seen a razor in days, and he hasn't showered in almost as long. He's not sure he really cares.

The handwriting on the envelope is familiar, but not enough to trigger any alarms. Lestrade tears the envelope open and lets it fall to the floor, then unfolds a single sheet of thick, creamy paper.

 _Dear Geoff,_ it says, _Come to Meiringen at once. Come alone and do not tell anyone where you've gone, especially JW. There is a matter of great importance I must discuss with you._

The letter is signed 'SH'.

  


~*~*~

  
The view from the top of Reichenbach Falls is dizzying, and Lestrade spends so much time watching the water that he almost misses the tall figure standing at the crest of the footpath. It's not until he glances up to see how much further it is that he sees Sherlock looking down at him, cheeks pink and curls damp from the spray.

Lestrade stops and just looks at him for a moment, and watches Sherlock do the same. They're alone out there; it's almost sunset, and most of the tourists have gone back to town. For just a couple of minutes, the only sound in the world is the roar of the waterfall.

“I wasn't sure you'd come,” calls Sherlock.

Lestrade knows what it must cost Sherlock to admit that-- the amount of pride he must sacrifice whenever he says “I don't know” or “I was wrong” or “I'm sorry”-- and suddenly, Lestrade is taking the carved steps two at a time, heedless of how slick they are underfoot. When he gets to Sherlock, he doesn't even pause to ask if it's okay before he throws his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulls him into a hug.

A few seconds pass, and then Sherlock grabs a handful of the back of Lestrade's jacket.

“You're alive,” says Lestrade, stupid with relief.

“So I am,” says Sherlock.

And it's funny, Lestrade thinks, how fragile the world is that everything can be set to rights again with just a handful of words.


End file.
